Morningstar

CHAPTER TWO

Jarek Mace received his reward from the innkeeper and, with a fine smile and a wave, walked away from the tavern. I felt a sense of loss at the time, and could not understand it. But life moved on. I stayed several days at the Six Owls, and even entertained the regulars on my last night.

They were common men and women and I did not bore them with the Dragon’s Egg, which is for the cultured. I gave them what they required — the Dancing Virgin. It is a simple piece of magick involving a silver tray which floats in the air while a girl, no taller than a man’s forearm, dances upon it, her body swathed in shimmering veils of silk.

It was not a great success, for there are many talented magickers who have debased the piece, introducing male partners and allowing them to simulate copulation. I could, of course, have duplicated such a scene — indeed, achieved a far more powerful display of the erotic. But I had always felt it wrong to pander to the lust of the mob. There were several coarse shouts during my performance which unsettled my concentration, but I continued and finished the display with a burst of white fire, a glowing ball that circled the room before exploding with a mighty bang.

Even after this the audience was apathetic in its applause, and I leapt from the table and walked to the long bar feeling somewhat depressed.

Few understand the emotional strain of magicking, the sense of fatigue and weariness of the soul that follows a performance. I drank heavily that night and it was very late when Bellin informed me that he would need my room for guests arriving the following day.

It seemed I had outstayed my welcome.

For the next few months I performed at several weddings and two funerals. I like funerals; I enjoy the solemnity and the tears. I do not mean to sound morbid, but there is something sweet and uplifting about grief. The tears of loved ones are more powerful than any epitaph on a man’s life. I have seen the funerals of great men, with many carriages following the hearse. Great speeches are made, but there are no tears. What kind of a life must it have been that no one cries for you? There is an eastern religion which claims that tears are the coins God accepts to allow a soul into heaven.

I greatly like that idea.

Man being what he is, of course, the eastern men pay people to cry for them at their funerals.

However, I digress. The months flowed by and I struggled to earn enough money to pay for my meagre requirements. The war was affecting everyone now. Food was in short supply and the prices rose. The Ikenas King, Edmund, had been true to his word. His army swept through the land like a forest fire, destroying towns and cities, crushing the armies of the north in several pitched battles, coming ever closer to Ziraccu.

There were tales of horror, of mutilation and torture. A nunnery, it was said, had been burnt to the ground, the Abbess crucified upon the main gates. Several noblemen captured at the Battle of Callen had been placed in iron cages on the castle walls, and left to die of cold and starvation.

The Count of Ziraccu, one Leonard of Capula, declared the city neutral and sent emissaries to Edmund. The emissaries were hanged, drawn and quartered. Left with no choice but to fight Leonard began hiring mercenaries to defend the walls, but no one believed they could resist the might of the southern Angostin army.

It was not a good time to be a bard. Few wanted to hear songs of ancient times, nor listen to the music of the harp. What they desired was to realize their capital and head for the ports, setting sail to the continent where the baying of the hounds of war would not carry.

Houses were being sold in Ziraccu for a twentieth of their worth and rich refugees left in their hundreds every day.

I had intended to wait in Ziraccu until the spring, but on the seventh day of midwinter — having not eaten for several days — I realized the time had come to make my way north.

I had no winter clothing and stole a blanket from my lodgings which I used as a cloak. I wrapped my hand-harp in cloth, gathered my few possessions and climbed from the window of my room, sliding down the roof and jumping into the yard.

The snow was deep everywhere and I was faint from hunger by the time I reached the northern gate. Three sentries, sitting around an iron brazier glowing with coals, were eating warmed slices from a large meat-pie. The smell of beef and pastry made my head spin, and I asked them for a slice. Naturally they refused, but recognizing me for a bard and a magicker, told me they would give me food if I performed well. I asked them what kind of performance they required.

They wanted the dancing girl and her partner — several partners in fact.

I learned then that principles rarely survive an empty belly, and for a large slice of meat-pie I gave them what they required. No subtlety, no silken veils. A small orgy performed above a brazier of coals. Warmer, and with a full belly, I walked out into the night, leaving the lights of Ziraccu behind me.

When I reached the foothills I turned for one last look at the city. Lanterns were glowing in the windows of the houses on the heights, and Ziraccu appeared as a jewelled crown. The moon hung above the highest hill of the city, and spectral light bathed the marble walls of the count’s palace. It was hard to believe, in that moment, that this was a country at war. The mountains loomed in the distance, proud and ageless, in what seemed a great circle around Ziraccu. It was a scene of great beauty.

Two months later the city was conquered by Edmund and his general, Azrek.

The slaughter was terrible.

But on that night all was quiet and I walked for upwards of an hour towards the distant forest. The temperature had plummeted to well below freezing, but a magicker has no fears of the cold. I cast a small spell which warmed the air trapped within my clothing and strolled on.

The night was clear, the stars bright. There was no breeze and a wonderful silence lay upon the land. There is such beauty in night-snow, it fills the soul with music. I had a need upon me to lose the images I had created for the guards, and only music could free me. I waited until I had reached the outskirts of the forest; then I found a hollow, cleared away a section of snow and magicked a fire. There are some who can hold the Fire spell for hours, never needing fuel. I could not achieve this, but I could maintain the flames for long enough to burn into gathered wood. I found several broken branches and added them to my flames. Soon I had a fine, small blaze. I did not need the heat but there is a comfort in fire, especially in lonely places. I did not fear trolls or demons, for they rarely came close to the habitats of Man, and I was but two hours from Ziraccu and still on the trade route. But there were wolves and wild boar in the forest and my fire, I hoped, would keep them from me.

Unwrapping my harp I tuned the strings and then played several melodies, tunes of the dance, light and rippling. But soon the unheard rhythms of the forest made themselves known to me and I began to play the music the forest wished to hear.

I was inspired then, my fingers dancing upon the strings, my heart pounding to the beat, my eyes streaming tears. Suddenly a voice cut through my thoughts, and my heart lurched inside my chest.

‘Very pretty,’ said Jarek Mace. ‘It will bring every robber within miles to your fire!’

His appearance had changed since last I saw him. He had grown a thin moustache and a small beard shaped like an arrowhead; it gave him a rakish, sardonic look. His hair had been expertly cut, and he wore a headband of braided leather. His clothes were also different, a sheepskin cloak with a deep hood, a woollen shirt edged with leather and a deerhide jerkin. His boots were the same, thigh-length, but he had gained a pair of leather trews that glistened as if oiled. A scabbarded longsword was belted at his waist and he carried a longbow and a quiver of arrows. He was every inch the woodsman.

‘Well, at least one robber has been brought to my fire,’ I muttered, angry at the intrusion.

He grinned and sat down opposite me, laying his bow against the trunk of an oak tree. ‘Now who would rob you, bard? You are all bones and your clothes are rags. I’ll wager there is nothing left in the pocket of your boot?’

‘That’s a wager won,’ I told him. ‘I did not expect to find you here.’

He shrugged. ‘I stayed for a while in Ziraccu, then headed north after the suicide.’

‘Suicide? What suicide?’

‘The woman whose jewels I stole. The stupid baggage tied a rope to her neck and threw herself from the staircase. After that they were really after my blood. I can’t see why, I didn’t ask her to do it.’

I sat and looked at him in disbelief. A woman who had loved him so desperately that she had killed herself when he left her. And yet he showed no remorse, or even sorrow. Indeed I don’t think the event touched him at all.

‘Did you feel nothing for her?’ I asked him.

‘Of course I did; she had a wonderful body. But there are thousands of wonderful bodies, bard. She was a fool and I have no time for fools.’

‘And who do you have time for?’

He leaned forward, holding his hands out to the fire. ‘A good question,’ he said at last. But he did not answer it. He seemed well-fed and fit, though he carried no pack or blankets. I asked him where he was staying, but he merely grinned and tapped his nose.

‘Where are you heading?’ he asked me.

‘I am heading north.’

‘Stay in the forest,’ he advised. ‘The Ikenas fleet attacked Torphpole Port and landed an army there. I think the forest will be safer for a while. There are plenty of towns and villages here, and the tree-line extends for two-hundred miles. I can’t see the Ikenas invading it; it will be safer than the lowlands.’

‘I need to earn my bread,’ I told him. ‘I do not wish to become a beggar, and I have little skill at husbandry or farming. And anyway a bard is safe — even if there is a war.’

‘Dream on!’ snapped Mace. ‘When men start hacking away with swords no one is safe, not man, woman nor child. It is the nature of war; it is bestial and unpredictable. Face it, you are cut off here. Make the best of it. Use your magick. I’ve known men walk twenty miles to see a good, ribald performance.’

‘I do not give ribald performances,’ I told him curtly, the memory of the meat-pie display surging from the recesses of my mind.

‘Shame,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would consider the shell game? A magicker ought to be magnificent at it. You could make the pea appear wherever the least money was bet.’

‘Cheat, you mean?’

‘Yes, cheat,’ he answered.

‘I… I… that would be reprehensible. And anyway the magick would soon fade if I put it to such use. Have you no understanding of the art? Years of study and self-denial are needed before the first spark of magick can be found in a soul. Years! It cannot be summoned for personal gain.’

‘Forgive me, bard, but when you perform in taverns is that not for personal gain?’

‘Yes, of course. But that is honest work. To cheat a man requires… deceit. Magick cannot exist in such circumstances.’

He looked thoughtful for a moment, then added several small sticks to the fire. ‘What of the Dark Magickers?’ he asked. ‘They summon demons and kill by witchery. Why does their magick not leave them?’

‘Shh,’ I said, alarmed. ‘It is not wise to speak of such as they.’ Hastily I made the sign of the Protective Horn and whispered a spell of Undoing. ‘They make pacts with… unclean powers. They sell their souls, and their power comes from the blood of innocents. It is not magick, but sorcery.’

‘What is the difference?’

‘I could not possibly explain it to you. My talents are from within and will harm no one. Indeed they could not cause pain. They are illusions. I could make a knife and thrust it into your heart. You would feel nothing, and no harm would come to you. But if… one of them were to do the same, your heart would be filled with worms and you would die horribly.’

‘So,’ he said, ‘you will not play the shell game? Well, what else can you do?’

‘I play the harp.’

‘Yes, I heard that. Very… soulful. Sadly, bard, I think you are going to starve to death. Gods, it is cold!’ Adding more fuel to the fire, he once more held out his hands to the flames.

‘I am sorry,’ I said, ‘I have forgotten my manners.’ Lifting my right hand I pointed at him and spoke the words of minor enchantment that warmed the air within his clothes.

‘Now that is a talent!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hate the cold. How long will the spell last?’

‘Until I fall asleep.’

‘Then stay awake for a few hours,’ he ordered me. ‘If I wake up cold I’ll cut your throat. And I mean that! But if I sleep warm I’ll treat you to a fine breakfast. Is it a bargain?’

‘A fine bargain,’ I told him, but he was immune to sarcasm.

‘Good,’ he said, and without another word stretched himself out on the ground beside the fire and closed his eyes.

I leaned back against the broad trunk of an oak tree and watched the sleeping man, my thoughts varied but all centred on Jarek Mace. My life as a bard and a storyteller had been filled with tales of men who looked like Jarek, tall and spectacularly handsome, confident and deadly in battle. It had almost become second nature in me to believe that a man who looked like him must be a hero. Part of me still wanted… needed… to believe it. Yet he had spoken with such lack of care about the poor dead woman back in Ziraccu. I did not know her, yet I could feel her grief as she tied the noose around her neck. I tried to tell myself that he did care, that he felt some sense of shame but was hiding it from me. But I did not believe it then, and I do not believe it now.

He had been drawn to my fire by the sound of the harp, but he had come to rob a lone traveller. And had I been carrying a coin I don’t doubt he would have taken it and left me, throat slit, on the snow of the forest floor.

Now he lay still, his sleep dreamless, and I, frightened of his threat, remained awake, my spell keeping him warm.

I thought back to our conversation, and realized that I had seen yet another Jarek Mace. His speech patterns were subtly altered. In Ziraccu he had sounded — for the most part — like an Angostin, except in those moments when anger flared and his voice had lost its cultured edge. Now, in these woods his speech carried the slight burr of the Highlander. I wondered if he even realized it. Or did he, like the chameleon, merely adjust his persona to suit his surroundings?

A badger moved warily across the hollow, snuffling at the snow. She was followed by three cubs, the last of whom approached the sleeping man. I created a small globe of white light that danced before the cub’s eyes, then popped! The cubs scampered away and the mother cast me a look that I took to be admonishment. Then she too disappeared into the bleak undergrowth.

I was hungry again — and growing cold. Two spells of Warming were hard to maintain. Banking up the fire, I moved closer to the flames.

My father’s castle on the south coast would be warm, with heavy velvet curtains against the narrow windows, huge log-fires burning in the many hearths. There would be wine and spirits, hot meats and pastries.

Ah, but I forget, ghost! You do not yet know me, save as the threadbare bard. I was the youngest of three sons born to the second wife of the Angostin count, Aubertain of WestLea. Yes, an Angostin. Neither proud nor ashamed of it, to be sure. My eldest brother, Ranuld, went to live across the sea, to fight in foreign wars. The second, Braife, stayed at home to manage the estates, while I was to have entered the church. But I was not ready to wear the monk’s habit, to spend my life on my knees worshipping a God whose existence I doubted. I ran away from the monastery and apprenticed myself to a magicker named Cataplas. He had a twisted back that gave him constant pain, but he performed the Dragon’s Egg like no one before or since.

That then was me, Owen Odell, an Angostin bard who in that dread winter was unable to make a living and who was sitting against a tree, growing colder by the moment, while his powers were being expended on a heartless killer who slept by his fire.

I was not a happy man as I sat there, hugging my knees, my thin, stolen blanket wrapped tight around my bony frame.

An owl hooted in the branches above me and Jarek stirred but did not wake. It was very peaceful there, I recall, beneath the bright stars.

Towards dawn Jarek awoke, yawned and stretched. ‘Best sleep I’ve had in weeks,’ he announced. Rolling to his feet, he gathered his bow and quiver and set off without a word of thanks for my efforts. My power had faded several hours before and I had barely managed to keep Mace warm, while I was almost blue with cold. With shivering hands I threw the last small sticks on the fire and held my numbed fingers above the tiny flames.

The morning sky was dark with snow-clouds, but the temperature was rising. Standing, I stamped my feet several times, trying to force the blood through to the frontiers of my toes.

Walking deeper into the forest, I began to gather more fuel. The weight of the recent snow had snapped many branches and the smaller of these I collected in my arms and carried to my campsite, returning for larger sections which I dragged through the snow. The work was arduous and I soon tired. But at least I was warmer now, save for my hands. The tips of my fingers had swelled against my nails and they throbbed painfully.

But all my discomfort was forgotten when the three men emerged from the forest to approach my fire.

There are times when the eyes see far more than the mind will acknowledge, when the heart will beat faster and panic begins at the root of the stomach. This was such a time. I looked up and saw the three and my mouth was dry. Yet there was nothing instantly threatening about them. They looked like foresters, dressed in homespun wool, with leather jerkins and boots of soft hide laced at the front with leather thongs. Each of them carried a bow, but they were also armed with daggers and short swords. I pushed myself to my feet, sure in my heart that I faced great peril.

‘Welcome to my fire,’ I said, proud that my voice remained steady. No one spoke, but they spread out around me, their eyes cold, faces grim. They seemed to me then like wolves, lean and merciless. The first of them, a tall man, looped his bow over his shoulder and knelt beside the fire, extending his hands to the flames.

‘You are a bard?’ he said, not looking at me.

‘I am, sir.’

‘I don’t like bards. None of us like bards.’

It is difficult to know how to react to an opening like that. I remained silent.

‘We come a long way in search of your fire, bard. We seen it last night, twinkling like a candle, built where no sensible man would. We walked through the night, bard, expecting a little coin for our trouble.’

‘I have no coin,’ I told him.

‘I can see that. It makes me angry, for you’ve wasted my time.’

‘How can you blame me?’ I asked him. ‘I did not invite you.’

He glanced up at one of the others. ‘Now he insults us,’ he said softly. ‘Now he says we’re not good enough to share his fire.’

‘That’s not what I said at all.’

‘Now he calls me a liar!’ snapped the man, rising and moving towards me, his hand on his dagger. ‘I think you should apologize, bard.’ It was then that I knew for certain they planned to kill me.

‘Well?’ he asked, pushing in close with his hand on his dagger. His breath was foul upon my face, his expression feral. There was nothing to say, and so I said nothing. I heard his knife whisper from its sheath and I tensed myself for the lunge.

Suddenly his head jerked, and I heard a soft thud and the crack of split bone. I blinked in amazement, for an arrow had sprouted from his temple. He stood for a moment, then I heard his knife drop to the snow; his hand slowly moved up to touch the long shaft jutting from the side of his head. His mouth opened, but no words came, then he sagged against me and slid to the ground with blood seeping from his shattered skull.

The other two men stood transfixed.

And Jarek Mace appeared from behind a screen of bushes, walking forward to the fire with his bow looped over his shoulder. Ignoring the corpse, he approached the two men. ‘Good morning,’ he said, his voice smooth, his smile in place. ‘It is cold, to be sure.’

In that moment everything changed. The two robbers, who had looked so threatening and tough, appeared suddenly to have lost their power. I looked hard at them, but could see only unwashed peasants, confused and uncertain. What strength they had had was gone from them, their power leached away. They were wolves no longer.

‘I think,’ said Jarek Mace, ‘it is time for you to move on. You agree?’

They nodded, but said nothing. ‘Good,’ Mace told them. ‘Very good. Leave your bows behind, and take the body with you.’

Dumbly they dropped their bows to the ground, then walked slowly to where I stood. They did not look at me, but hauled the corpse upright and half-carried, half-dragged it away.

Within moments the little clearing was bare, and apart from the dropped bows and the blood by my feet there was no sign of the intruders.

‘Thank you,’ I managed to say.

‘You are most welcome,’ said Mace, ‘but it was nothing.’

‘You saved my life. He would have killed me.’

‘Yes. Now for the breakfast I promised you.’

‘Breakfast? Shouldn’t we be gone from here? They might come back with others.’

‘They won’t come back, bard,’ he assured me.

‘How can you be certain?’

‘They don’t want to die.’ Standing, he strolled back to the bushes, returning with a small deer slung across his broad shoulders. Thankfully he had already gutted and prepared it, but even then I could not tear my eyes from the deer’s delicate features. I have no aversion to eating venison, but I prefer it skinned and boned. It does my digestion no good at all to see the meat in its original form — and it is hard to appreciate food when its owner’s head lies close to your fire.

Even so the meat was good and Jarek cut the remaining portions and wrapped them in the hide for later use.

‘Well, what are your plans?’ he asked me as we finished our breakfast.

I shrugged. ‘I was told there was a village some six miles to the north. I intend to walk there and try to earn my supper.’

‘And then?’

‘I have thought no further on the subject. I would have starved in Ziraccu had I stayed much longer. Perhaps I will try for the ports and seek passage south.’

He nodded. ‘That’s good thinking. No one in their right mind would want to stay in this war-torn land. Is your power returned yet? I’m getting cold.’

‘No,’ I lied, basking in magick warmth. ‘Not for another hour-maybe two.’

‘Then let us be moving,’ he grunted, pushing himself to his feet and swinging the hide sack to his shoulder. Taking up my harp-bag, I walked alongside him.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To the village you spoke of. I have friends there.’

I said nothing more and trudged silently behind him down the narrow trails through the trees. After a while we heard voices and laughter and emerged into a clearing beside the forest road.

It was a scene of murder and pillage. A score or more of rough-garbed woodsmen were moving among the bodies of the slain, ripping away rings and boots, cloaks and jerkins. Two wagons stood by, piled high with furniture and chests. I glanced at the dead — several men, three women, and beyond the road a monk in a bloodstained habit with an axe still jutting from his back.

‘Good morning, Wulf,’ called Jarek, striding across the murder site and hailing a hunchback with a forked beard.

The man looked up and grinned. ‘It is so far, Mace,’ he said. Lifting a small hand-axe, he brought the blade down on the hand of the dead man below him. I grunted in shock as the fingers were sliced in half. The hunchback lifted them, pulling the rings loose before discarding the shattered bones.

‘Who is your squeamish friend?’

‘He is a bard — and a magicker,’ Jarek told him. Then he pointed at the corpse. ‘You’ve missed an earring.’

The hunchback grunted and tore the gold loose; the dead man’s head flopped in the snow. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for long,’ muttered Wulf. ‘What’s in the hide?’

‘Venison.’Looking to share it with friends?’

‘Are you looking to buy it?’

The hunchback let out a cackling laugh. ‘Why should I not take it? There’s twenty of us, and only a fool would fight. You are no fool.’

‘No, I am not,’ Jarek agreed, smiling. ‘But I would kill you, Wulf, then offer to share it with the others. You think they’d fight to avenge you?’

‘Nah,’ said the hunchback. ‘What do you say to this here brooch?’ His bloody hand flicked the gold through the air. Jarek caught it with his left hand, then hefted it for weight.

‘Nice. It’s a bargain.’ Dropping the sack Jarek walked on, stepping over the body of the priest. I hurried after him, keeping my mouth shut and my disgust to myself until we were some distance from the scene.

‘At least he didn’t rape the women,’ said Jarek. ‘He’s very moral that way.’

‘Are you using that as an excuse for him?’

‘He doesn’t need me to excuse him,’ he answered. ‘Wulf is a woodsman — and a good one. But the war had taken its toll, even in the forest. The Count of Ziraccu needed money to hire his mercenaries. So, even — a count has a limited income: he could not afford to maintain his work-force here. Wulf has no job now. Food supplies are scarce, and prices have risen fourfold. He has a family to feed, yet no coin to buy food. What else could he do but take to the road?’

‘He has become a murderer!’

‘That’s what I said, didn’t I?’

‘You condone the murder of innocent women?’

‘I didn’t kill them,’ he said. ‘Don’t vent your anger on me.’

‘But you were happy to trade with their killers.’

He stopped and turned to face me — the smile, as ever, in place. ‘You are angry, bard, but not with me. You were filled with horror back there, and loathing and disgust. But you said nothing. That is what is burning inside you… not the trade.’

I let out a long sigh and looked away.

‘Come on,’ he said cheerfully. ‘It is a short walk to the village.’

The village was a collection of some twenty-five dwellings, some of simple wood construction beneath sloping roofs of thatch, others more solidly built of clay, mixed with powdered stone, beneath wooden roofs weighted with large stones. They were all single-storey, but equipped with narrow lofts where the children slept. The settlement was situated on the western shore of a long lake and a dozen fishing-boats were drawn up on the mud flats by the water’s edge.

Jarek and I walked into the village, passing a group of children playing by the open doors of the central hall. There was much giggling as the youngsters, dressed in simple tunics and trews of wool — most of them grime-ingrained — chased each other around the building. An old man sitting in a narrow doorway nodded at Jarek and lifted a weary hand in greeting. Jarek waved and moved on.

A young girl, scarce in her teens, watched us as we passed. Her blonde hair was cropped close to her head and her eyes were wide and frightened. She shrank back against the side of the building, her gaze locked to us. I smiled at her, and she turned and sped away between the houses.

‘Ilka,’ said Jarek. ‘The village whore.’

‘She is but a child.’

‘Fifteen or thereabouts,’ he said, ‘but she was raped two years ago in the forest and left to die. She is an orphan with no hope of marriage. What else could she become?’

‘Why no hope of marriage? She is comely.’

‘The rapists cut out her tongue,’ he answered.

‘And for that she is condemned?’

He stopped and turned to face me. ‘Why do you say condemned? She has employment, she earns her bread, she is not despised.’

I was lost for words. I could see from his expression that he was genuinely curious, and lacked any understanding of the girl’s grief. Her future had been stolen from her, the gift of speech cruelly ripped from her mouth. Yet she was the one who faced a lifetime of punishment. I tried to explain this but Jarek merely chuckled, shook his head and walked on. I wondered then if I had missed some subtlety, or overlooked an obvious point. But her face stayed in my mind, haunted and frightened.

We came at last to a narrow house built near the water’s edge. Beyond the dwelling was a tall net hut and a fenced area which had been dug over and shaped for a vegetable patch. Nothing was growing now, but inside the house there were sacks of carrots and dried onions, and various containers filled with edible tubers that were unknown to me. It was a long, one-roomed dwelling with a central hearth of fired clay and stone. Screens had been set around the hearth and there were four rough-hewn seats close to the fire. Against the far wall was a wide bed. Jarek loosed the string of his bow and laid it against the wall, his quiver and sword alongside it. Shrugging off his sheepskin cloak, he sat beside the fire staring into the flames.

‘Who lives here?’ I asked, pulling up a seat alongside him.

‘Megan,’ he answered, which told me little.

‘Is she your lover?’

He chuckled and shook his head; he had a fine smile, warm and friendly. ‘You’ll meet her soon enough,’ he said. ‘Show me some magick. I have been here for only a few moments and already I’m bored.’

‘What would you like to see?’

‘I don’t care. Entertain me. Pretend I’m a full audience in a tavern.’

‘Very well…’ I sat back, thinking through my repertoire.

Then I smiled. Before his eyes on the dirt floor a small building appeared, then another, and another. Between them was an alleyway. A young girl, no taller than the length of my hand, came running into sight pursued by ruffians. A brightly-garbed young man carrying a harp entered the scene. ‘Stop that!’ he cried, his voice thin and reedy and far away. The ruffians advanced on him, but suddenly a tall hero leapt from an upper balcony. He moved like a dancer, yet his sword was deadly and soon the ruffians were either dead or fleeing. I let the scene fade from sight. It took great concentration, but to have enchantment merely vanish always seemed to me to be the mark of a clumsy magicker.

He was silent for a moment, staring at the dirt floor. ‘That’s good, bard,’ he said softly. ‘That’s very good. Is that how it looked to you?’

‘It did at the time.’

‘How have you lived so long?’ he asked me.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The romance in your heart. This world of ours is a garden of evil. You should have been a monk, locked away in some grey monastery with high walls and strong gates.’

‘Life can be like the stories,’ I said. ‘There are still heroes, men of great soul.’

‘You have met them?’

‘No, but that does not mean they do not exist. Manannan, the Last Knight of the Gabala, or Rabain the Vampyre Slayer, both walked these woods, saw the stars above the same mountains. It is a dream of mine to see such a man, perhaps to serve him. A soldier or a poet, I do not mind. But someone with the courage to change this world, a man with a soul as bright as the last star of the morning.’

‘Dream on, bard. Morningstar, indeed! You know much of weapons?’

‘Very little. My older brothers were trained to be knights. Not I.’

‘A morningstar is a terrible weapon. It has a short handle of iron and attached to it is a chain; on the end of the chain is a ball of spiked metal. It is a kind of mace. When a man is struck by it he dies, his skull smashed to fragments.’

‘That is not the Morning Star I spoke of.’

‘I know, but you spoke of a dream. I am giving you the reality.’

‘Only your reality.’

‘What is it you are looking for? Glory? What?’

I shrugged. ‘What do all men seek? I want to he happy. I would like a wife and sons one day. But I want them to grow in a land where there is hope for the future, where men do not take to the road. If that is a hopeless dream — and maybe it is — then I will sire no sons. I will wander, and play my harp, and weave my magick until the end.’

I expected him to laugh, or to say something scornful. But somehow what he did was worse. He stood and walked to a nearby water-butt, lifting a copper gourd and drinking deeply.

‘You think the weather will break soon?’ he asked me.

I did not answer him. I felt a sudden need for music and took my harp outside, walking to the water’s edge and sitting beside a long, narrow boat. The wind was rippling the water, and small sections of ice came floating by on the grey surface. Snow began to fall and I played for the snow, my fingers plucking daintily at the shorter strings, the higher notes, the music drifting out over the lake. Darker, deeper tones crept in as the storm-clouds gathered.

Several villagers came by as I played but I ignored them. The first person I noticed was the whore, Ilka. She crept in close and sat hugging her knees, her huge blue eyes fixed to my face. The music changed as I saw her, becoming wistful and sad. She shook her head and rose, beginning a curious dance in the mud. I saw her then as a nymph, a magical eldritch creature trapped in a world that understood nothing. And the music changed again, lifting and swelling, still sorrowful but filled with a promise of new tomorrows.

At last my fingers became tired and the music died. Ilka stopped too, and looked at me with those wide, haunted eyes. Her expression was hard to read. I smiled and said something — I don’t remember what it was — but fear came back to her then and she scampered away into the gathering dusk.

Towards evening I saw Wulf and his killers striding towards the village.

For a moment only I was filled with stark terror; but then I saw the children running up to meet them. The hunchback lifted one small boy high into the air, perching him on his twisted shoulder, and the sound of laughter filled the village.

Jarek was right, in part at least.

This forest was a garden of evil.